


and the road will stretch before me

by kristin



Category: Deep Impact (1998)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:18:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristin/pseuds/kristin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 mornings. Before, During and After.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the road will stretch before me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starseverywhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseverywhere/gifts).



> Title from "[King of the World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYriYGwftPc)"

To Do:  
\- Wake up  
\- Get cofee  
\- Morning meeting  
\- Get gift for Randall

****

**Before**

  
 ** ~~Get Gift for Randall~~**  
"Sir, that might not be the best idea," said Owen, his voice testier than you would suppose a man addressing the President would be. Of course, he did have the shield of being his closest advisor, and on the days when he wasn't too aggravating, best friend.

But still, best friend or no, it wouldn't do to let him get too big for his britches, metaphorically. Judging by the paunch it was too late for that physically. "What might not be the best idea, _Mr. President_?"

"Don't get testy with me. You know exactly what I am talking about," Owen said, giving a significant glance to the book Tom was holding.

"Oh, this?" asked Tom, playing stupid. "American author, intellectual yet manly, from a PR point I don't think you can argue with this as a gift for my nephew.”

Owen shook his head. "Is it though?"

"The name is right here on the cover."

"No, a gift for Randall," Owen said, his voice getting lower on every syllable, as if he spoke softly enough if would negate the fact they were having this conversation at all. That this conversation was necessary to begin with. Tom couldn't even hear the ell in Randall at all.

_Randall_. God, the names his sister chose for her kids made them seem like a stodgy old men, even the girls. But then, that had been when he was first elected to the House. Maybe she was trying to make them sound like they should be related to a politician. "It _is_ a gift for Randall."

"No sir, it is a gift for ELE," said Owen sternly.

And damn it all if he wasn't right.

 

**~~Morning Meeting~~**  
“This is Nate Jacobson,” said Owen, ushering in a pudgy man in a too-shiny suit. He was sweating too, a heavy sheer across his brow. Maybe this meeting might actually be important enough that he should have found time in his schedule for coffee.

"We've met, I believe," said Tom, extending his hand.

"Yes, you appointed me," Jacobson said. "You sent a lovely congratulations letter." He was shifting from side to side anxiously.

The door clicked shut. Time to get down to business. "So, you're here to talk to me about national security?" Tom let skepticism shade into his tone. "Aliens, then?"

"Mr. President," said Owen, admonishing.

Tom laughed. "If they don't say anything I am just going to assume it's aliens."

Jacobson cleared his throat. "I just. Can you. I mean, can I stand?" He pulled out a stack of cards, the corners worried down. "I also have graphs, but I didn't want anyone else to see."

"Graphs of aliens?" asked Owen. There was a reason Tom liked him.

"No, Mr. President," said Jacobson. He paused, his throat working soundlessly for a moment before he said, "Have you ever heard of an E.L.E.?"

Tom supposed the explanation that followed would have made sense to some scientist, to someone who was more than a nice speaking voice. Maybe there was some president, more capable than he, who would know what to do.

But in the end, all he could say was, "So, how do we proceed?"

Jacobson dropped the cards. They fluttered down onto the carpet, covering the olive branch clenched in the eagle's claw. He scrambled to his knees, but made no movement to answer, just grappling with the edges of his cards.

Tom looked up, catching the gazes of each person in the room in turn. "I said, how do we proceed."

Jacobson reached up and took his glasses off, wiping them on his sleeve, while saying, "Well, we don't generally."

"We don't what?" asked Owen.

"Proceed."

"Now, from what I remember, you are a very smart man, Dr. Jacobson,” said Tom.

Jacobson nodded, no false modesty. "Yes, Mr. President."

"Well, I only went to law school. I think my mother would have liked it if I were a doctor instead, but I wasn't actually much for school." Tom paused, shook his head, "Sorry, getting off track. My point is this. I might not know much about comets, about trajectories and orbits and all those words that I am sure I will be hearing much more about in the coming days and years. But I do know something you don't, Dr. Jacobson."

"And what is that?"

"That no matter what shit you put people through, they still persevere." Tom rapped his hand against his desk. "People will go on, and we will, in fact, proceed."

 

**~~Wake-up Call~~**  
"Good morning, Jeremiah," said Tom as he answered the phone. Never Jeremy. Tom had originally thought it was some sort of respect issue, not wanting to be called Jeremy by the President. But now, after four years, Tom was certain. He was just a prig.

"Mr. President, you’re already awake," said Jeremiah, his disapproval clear.

"Very observant," said Tom, already tuning him out as he jotted down notes about the new tax bill. It was going to pass. 8 years of work, and all worth it.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Did my sister ask you to spy?” replied Tom on autopilot, “because to tell you the truth, I was wondering if it might be prudent to make it official, make her head of the CIA, make her really embrace the nosiness."

"Yes, Mr. President," said Jeremiah, though the huff of air audible over line made it very clear that was a lie.

"Now, I've written up a schedule for the morning," said Tom.

"You have a department for that.”

"I do,” Tom said, looking down at the sentence he had just written and crossing it out. “But I also have a pen and paper and some modicum of self determination."

Listening to Jeremiah huff, Tom decided to spare him a bit. "I also consulted with my schedulers about _my_ schedule. So it is all official. Though they did seem very keen on keeping my security briefing, even though I thought it was a mistake."

"Why?"

"They have me scheduled to be meeting with Jacobson rather than any of the usual brass."

"Jacobson?" asked Jeremiah.

"Head of NASA."

****

**During**

  
 ** ~~Gift for Randall~~**  
“What would you like for your birthday?”

"Really, Uncle Tom?" asked Randall, scorn oozing from his throat.

"I know I don't have so much, in comparison here," said Tom. He used to be able to afford extravagance. Now this conversation was as much luxury as he could spare. How he prayed for more hours in the day.

Randall scoffed, his voice hard. "I don't know that I want anything from you, Mr. President." He stressed the last word, pulling it out into some caricature of itself, like a flag knotted by the wind.

"Well, then. I guess I'll just have to come up with something on my own," said Tom, ignoring the anger pushing down on his chest and keeping his voice light.

"You've given me too much."

"Yes, I have. I gave you your life. And your mother's and sister’s and I would do it again. I am a selfish man, yes. I put my family first and didn't let you stay behind."

"You put me in handcuffs." Randall's words were laced with bitterness, no, chained with it. Chained with the images of a proud young Black man being tossed into the back of a truck by the Secret Service, gun trained on his back. Tom had watched the security camera footage. Had made himself watch it.

"I won't apologize for it."

"Then I know what I want," said Randall, words quick jabs. "Not to see you."

Tom knew it was anger, brief and fleeting and powered by guilt, that spoke, more than genuine hatred. That was the one thing they were not rationing here in the Ark, no, everyone was drowning in it; here. Everyone knew someone who had died, wondered 'why, oh why God was I spared.' And maybe it was what prompted him to say, "If that is what you want."

 

**~~Get Coffee~~**  
"Coffee," said the man, eyes not looking up from his task. His hands were moving surely as he rolled up the bag of beans, checked the temperature of the water. "It will be a minute if you don't mind waiting."

"Don't mind if I do," said Tom, leaning against the hewn wall of his private canteen.

The man looked up at his voice, starting. "Oh," he said, hand flutter over his shirt as if he could brush off the limestone dust. It covered everything these days.

Tom motioned him back to his task. "Sorry to startle you. You seemed to be deep in thought."

"Oh, yes," Tom raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to expand his thought.

"Honestly? I was thinking about changing my name. Which is now all mixed up in my head because I don't know what to call you. Do I say Mr. President, still? Our glorious leader? His Holiness?" The man ducked, looking around as if expecting an attack for his impudence

Tom laughed, extending his hand. "Tom Beck."

"Don Biederman."

Tom didn't bother to conceal his wince. "That is quite the name to have these days."

Don shrugged, pouring a cup of newly brewed coffee. "It's why I'm here."

"That and the coffee," said Tom, accepting the cup. "What did you do, before, then? If not coffee?"

"Well, I was a shrink," he said in a self-deprecating tone.

"Dr. Biederman, do you believe in conspiracy theories?"

"What kind?"

"The kind where a shrink is sent to make the coffee of the president who has to make a hard decision."

Don paused, obviously thinking before releasing a quick stream of words. "That is quite the theory. But in this case I don't. Because honestly, I can't help you with this choice. I simply can't comprehend what you have done, the choices you already made-"

"The choices I had to make," said Tom.

"Yes, those. The ones that mean I don't know if my son is alive, if my best friend screamed when he died, if I will ever leave this cave. Those choices you made and I couldn't. The ones that you made because you were elected president, and today is Friday, November 13th and no one has said you can stop."

"Can I?"

"How the hell should I know? I just make the coffee. You're the one who makes the choices,” said Don, and really that was all the answer he needed.

Tom handed him the now empty cup. "Mr. President."

"What?"

"You're the one who makes the decisions, Mr. President."

 

**~~Morning Meeting~~**  
"We should talk about it," said Tom, calmly, after the prioritization of road reconstruction. (He did not feel any guilt that Washington would be first. Yes, it was his home, but it was also the symbol they needed.)

"About what," said Owen, his voice too smooth to be the truth.

"I am not, nor do I want to be, a dictator."

"No one thinks you are," he lied.

Tom snorted. "I believe the phrase I have heard most often echoing through the ark has been theocrat."

"Well, we did choose for intelligence," said Owen, failing at a joke.

"Yes, we did," sighed Tom. "We chose some very smart people to stash in these caves, and therefore they have devised calendars and reminders and have realized what we have done."

"And what is that?" asked Olive, barely glancing up from her ledger. A country's budget, all laid out on paper and she was writing in it in pen.

"We have outstayed our welcome, folks,” said Tom, jovially, “My term ended last week and no one has re-elected me."

"No one is saying you aren't welcome.” Owen was apparently in the mood to fight.

"Well, no one has voted for me. In fact, they couldn't vote for me, seeing as we have a constitution in this country," Tom paused for emphasis, drawing out his words like a sword from its sheath, "We do still have a Constitution, right? One with term limits."

Margaret piped up, then. "It won't work."

"What won't?" Asked someone from the back. Was it Bill? You would think with the finite number of people in these caves that it would be easier to know everyone's names.

"Elections, the free process," said Margaret, calmly. Like she wasn't disavowing the history of her nation. "We're under martial law."

Tom sighed. "Yes. Still. And don't think I'm happy about that."

"We simply don't have the infrastructure.”

"No, what we have is a coup, an unelected present making decisions for the rest," grumbled someone near the back. Tom put some effort into making sure he really didn't know that person's name.

"We need you. We need the symbol. We need you to step down in Washington," said Owen.

"We're years from being ready for that," Tom turned his head, making sure to catch everyone's gaze in turn. "We will be skewered for this. Hell, they might even bring back a guillotine just for my head. But the worst thing is, I want them to."

"Mr. President..."

"No, this isn't some sort of suicidal guilt trip, no. This is about my answer to that question, you know the one, 'Why are you running for president?' and then I say, 'Well, I believe in this country. I want to be the president because I believe I can make us better, a nation for our children that is safe, secure, and a pinnacle of greatness.'"

And yet here we are. I have lead our people down into the dusty caves of old and now I take from them one of the few things they have left. I am taking their choice from them."

"There's no one else," said Margaret.

"I know. I just wanted to make sure you all knew that too. That I made a choice. And rightly or wrongly, it compounds all those other choices I made. To build the ark, to nuke the comets to hold the lottery. Every choice. I made them. And so I've painted myself into a corner now."

No elections. I'm keeping my power and God save us all."

 

**~~Wake-up Call~~**  
No one wakes him up; maybe they thought he was thinking. He should have been thinking about it. But he needed the sleep, Tom supposed. Needed to recoup and relax, get his mind straight on.

Rest. It sounded like some fable from his childhood. And then they lived happily ever and slept. He coughed, lungs still unused to the thick limestone dust that coated his throat with every breath.

"And yet, we live," he whispered to himself, even as he stood up, mind revved and rolling with plans and options. "We live. No time to rest now."

 

****

**After**

  
 ** ~~Gift for Randall~~**  
"Well, isn't that something." Tom ran his hand along the scarred trunk of the tree, almost healed over now from what had hit it. Another metaphor for his memoirs.

"What, sir?" came the reply, a respectful five feet behind him.

He didn’t start, even though he hadn’t actually expected a response. It had been years now since he had been alone. Since he hadn’t been watched. He used to love it.

"This tree is older than dirt, why even older than me. Maybe not so old as you, though," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the guard, who was all of 20. Might not even a teenager at time of impact. He wasn’t wearing a helmet. Very young, then to already be exposed. Or maybe it was acclimated.

"Very funny, sir.”

"I've done this before, you know." Tom bent down, feeling the movement in every creak of his joints as he reached his hand down into the weeds, those glorious weeds, to find his prize. "Apple picking, I mean. I thought it would make a great photo op, me and my nephew picking apples on a bucolic autumn day in New Hampshire."

He took a breath, more from the simple exertion than the speech. There had been no gas allotment for this venture, and his knees were too old for so much pedaling. "As I recall, my advisors hated it. Like the image of the black presidential candidate picking fruit was something to be avoided. Man, that was a shitstorm. All that fuss over my picking some apples with my nephew on his birthday.”

Tom stood, pulling himself up, apple in hand. “Oh, don't get me wrong, I got their point, but you want to know why I didn't care?"

The guard wasn’t looking at him, more intent on his scanner, aimed now at the apple. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t about the photo op. Because it was his birthday and he wanted to go. And sometimes things are more important than the political fallout.” Tom listened carefully for the beep of the scanner, that helpful chirp of the radiation counter. "I think I found a gift for Randall this year.”

 

**~~Coffee~~**  
Tom actually smelled the cart before he heard the crunch of the gravel underneath the heavy cart. Coffee. Still rationed, but it was here. He steered his bike to the side of the road and stopped, expectant.

"Traveler, can I interest you in some coffee? I'm making my delivery rounds so it's still fresh-

"Oh," said the vendor, stopping her spiel. It was quite enough that Tom couldn't hear it, just see the syllable mouthed under the bulbous radiation helmet she wore.

"Yes, I do get to wander sometimes," he said, responding to the unasked question. "But don't worry, I have guards." He didn't bother to specify who they were guarding. Some days, he honestly wasn't sure. He reached into his pocket, slowly, before pulling out his debit card, holding it out to be scanned. "Coffee?"

Tom waited a moment, but the coffee vendor didn't make a move to pick up his scanner or to go pour a cup. "It isn't very good," said Max, or at least Tom assumed it was her name. It might not be her cart, but it was a name and it would do.

"But it will do just fine by me, I promise," he said, keeping the card extended until he saw the scanner raised in response. "Thank you."

Max shook her head. "I don't think I can charge you," she said, even as she slipped the scanner into the back into her bike basket and dismounted. "I mean, you saved us." Tom kept half an eye on his guards, but he needn't have worried, as she just walked back to her cart, moving seemingly by route, hand moving over the buttons until a paper mug full of coffee appeared. Her hands were shaking, if the quiver of her gloves were anything to go by.

"Thank you," he said as he took it from her. He used to deny it, but somedays he needed the reminder. _He saved them_

"Can I ask you something?" Max asked, her voice strong again, like when she had been calling out her salesman cadence.

He nodded. He wasn't surprised, could never be surprised at how quickly people adapted to scenarios they had never considered. "Of course."

"You're not wearing a helmet," she stated as she raised her hand to her neck, as if to take hers off as well.

"Not a question, but I'll answer it," said Tom, "There were days when we didn't know how bad it would be, days where I had to show my face so the world could see I wasn't afraid. My body has already gotten its fill of abuse, no need to avoid a little more ash."

"That's quite the speech," she said, smile apparent underneath the greyish bulb of her radiation shielding.

"Oh, speeches I can do, it's the other things that were harder." "Now you need to keep moving, make sure people get their coffee hot. So go, and God be with you."

 

**~~Morning Meeting~~**  
Tom picked up phone and said "No." While he felt that he had been perfectly clear, it did not stymie Owen.

"It's time for your briefing."

"The only briefing I need is a weather update," grumbled Tom, keeping his feet pedaling. Between the speed of his bike and the tiny phone, he was not in the mood for any sort of a meeting.

Owen sighed. "You're not wearing your helmet."

"Aren't I?"

"You aren't," said Owen firmly. He was probably getting updates from the security detail.

"You sound very sure of that."

"Is this some emperor's new clothes scenario?" asked Owen. “Not that I think-”

Tom knew Owen didn't think. But he knew. Tom read the papers. Read them with delight. He had cried the first time he felt cheap ink rubbing into his fingertips. No one stopped the news. He saw the headlines, and knew what they called him.

“Emperor Beck, the dictator puppet, yes, Emperor Beck. That does seem a bit contradictory to me. To be a dictator when my strings are being pulled by others." He kept his voice as sonorous as possible. It had always been his best aspect, made the voters trust him implicitly.

"Sir."

"I'm no one's sir this morning." He wasn't, not now. Not since the trials. Not since he stepped down before the trials could begin. Not since he ended martial law and ended his presidency 14 years after it began.

Too long. Necessary, yes, but too long. “Also, you’re early. I haven’t had my coffee yet. Can’t be expected to hear about the state of my nation without any coffee.”

"Sir."

"Loyalty, very commendable," he said, keeping his tone light. "I am making a break for it now. You can inform me of the mistakes my successors are making some other time. I have to go scavenge a birthday gift for Randall. He hasn't forgiven me yet."

**~~Wake-up Call~~**  
The sun was shining. No one had called and the sun was shining and so Tom was awake. The dust cover had been lessening for weeks now, something about the wind patterns and the amount of time that had passed. Years now since impact and the dust was finally settling.

There was something poetic about that. Maybe he should add it to his memoirs.

Tom rolled out bed more than stood, content to let gravity sort things out rather than actively pushing off the bed. Once his legs were firmly underneath him, he walked towards the window and whispered, "Let there be light, indeed."


End file.
